In His Worst Nightmare
by illyria-pffyffin
Summary: The hobbits' bedroom secrets. PG-13 for images of violence.
1. frodo

**_In His Worst Nightmare_**

**_frodo_**

In his worst nightmare he was still in the red chamber up in the turret of the Tower of Cirith Ungol.  He lay on his side, gazing listlessly at the undulating shadows on the wall, his whole body throbbing in the raging fire that surged from the back of his neck, his mind writhing in a far deeper, far darker agony.  The Ring.  He had lost It.   

Maybe he should weep for his failure; maybe he should mourn his choice.  But he could only think of the Ring and what Its loss entailed.  In the absence of its voluptuous songs he felt an isolation so absolute that not even the orcs tormenting him seemed real.  Without its fiery caress, he felt so cold that he could only swallow with difficulty when the orcs forced their foul, fiery draught down his numb throat.  There was an unfamiliar silence where echoes of his defiance faltered and withered away, and in the utter darkness that Its brilliant glow left, he groped blindly, wildly, for traces of his scattered soul, for remnants of his will, and, to his horror, for Its comforting, albeit painful, caress.

But the most excruciating pain, he realized with despair, lay not in the torture of thinking that the Ring was no longer in his possession, that It belonged to another now.  It was in the knowledge that he had failed.  He had endured torment and loss only to bring the Ring where It sought to be.  He closed his eyes tightly, but even in the abysmal darkness he could see the river of blood flowing across dark deserts where hope would never again grow.  No more grass and woods and gardens, laughter and songs and love.  He could see hobbits bowed and crushed by slavery and torment; proud men groveling for mercy; elves stripped of their innate beauty and grace, preyed upon by leering hordes of orcs.  The horror, and shame, and guilt—beyond tears, beyond pain—descended mercilessly upon him, drowning him in tears that could no longer speak for his anguish and pain, and he let himself sink into eddies of blood-red shadows, willing death to hasten. 

Then he heard Sam singing.  He closed his eyes in wonder and felt tears pool in his eyes.  The song reminded him of something: a vague, hazy, calming memory that slipped through his fingers before he could hold it and look at it more closely.  But he still remembered Sam's voice.  A stubborn streak of hope trembled in his heart, and his soul cried at the sudden stab of emotion.  For a while his mind was wrenched away from the Ring and he silently, anxiously, berated Sam for being so reckless as to enter an orcs' lair instead of running away to safety, though whatever safety there was left out there with the Quest failed, he could not conceive.  Another part of him wished desperately for Sam to find him.  Then maybe he did not have to die alone.  The thought revolted him and he furiously tried to quell it.

Then Sam came up the trap door, slew the orc wielding the razor-tipped whip and told his master that, far from gone, the Ring was with him, safe around his neck.

He did not know what he was thinking and why he did everything that followed, only that at the sight of the Ring dangling on Its chain in Sam's hand a sudden flood of rage welled from within him, pulling him under, overpowering him.  After he snatched the Ring from Sam, a crimson veil fell over his sight and he picked a rusty old blade lying nearby and with a single sweep, struck Sam…  He leered in satisfaction at the gurgling sound of dying breath; and a sickening sensation of triumph unfurled in his heart.  Blood splashed from Sam's slit throat, thick and red…and he fell, lifeless golden-brown eyes staring accusingly at the hobbit who was once his master.  

He killed Sam…  The Ring made him slay Sam; It had commanded, and he had obeyed, unthinking …  Sam's blood webbed the floor in dark red rivulets …  Sam's blood…  

At this point he always woke up wailing, gasping and drenched in sweat, before hanging over the edge of his bed, retching violently.   He used to have Sam rushing to his side at such times.  But there was Rose now, and a child on the way, and Sam no longer slept in the room adjoining his master's.  So he tightly clutched the white jewel dangling from the chain round his neck, bit his lip and tried to be as quiet as possible, shivering in the warmth of his room till morning brought a glimpse of pale blue sky outside his window, something he could fasten his gaze onto to remind him that Cirith Ungol and the red chamber were things of the past.  It was never easy and with the passing of seasons, became increasingly more difficult. 

Yet he found that some nights he dreamed of mornings filled with birdsong, when the wind seemed to be singing as it wove playfully among the high branches of murmuring mallorn trees and the dew was cool on his bare toes.  In those dreams he stood on top of a hill and wherever he looked he saw the Sea, a deep shade of blue, tinged with gold where the newly awakened Sun kissed the waves.  Best of all, Bilbo was there, and they had breakfast, talked, laughed and sang together.  

The place was not Bag End.  It was nowhere in the Shire for that matter, and Bilbo looked much older, so it could not have been a memory from the times when they still lived together.  But it also could not have been Rivendell, for the beauty of it surpassed even the loveliness of the Last Homely House.  There were wide open spaces splashed with wild flowers and drenched in sunshine, something of a rarity in the fortress-like landscape of Rivendell.  It was a strange place that he had never before seen.  Yet he had no doubt that there he would find rest.  There the nightmares would never find him.

***


	2. sam

**_In His Worst Nightmare_**

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**_sam_**

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In his worst nightmare he had to fight his way through heaps of stinking, blood-soaked orc carcasses, with Sting glowing a faint blue sheen in his trembling grip.  Through dim passages strewn with more mangled bodies, his feet squelching in thick puddles of blood; up steep staircases, stepping on armor-plated dead orcs, he struggled on.  The putrid stench of the place and his own growing sense of despair dried his mouth and made his limbs weak, but he carried on.  The noise of fighting orcs had died down and the place was still, save for the faint crackle of the crude torches along the wall.  He paused on doorways of shadowy rooms furnished with lengths of coarse ropes, thick chains and rusty manacles hung from mysterious wheels and pulleys, while whips and clubs lay on floors black with dried blood.  Bile rose in his throat as he imagined  what the orcs would have, could have done to Frodo in the time it took him wandering lost in the bewildering maze of the Tower of Cirith Ungol.  He shook his head to clear the image and steeled himself to go on.

Until he found the ladder to the trapdoor on the ceiling.  He climbed up, still carrying Sting in one hand.  His head emerged in a room lit with blood-red fire, with two more dead orcs on the floor before him.  He pulled himself up cautiously but nothing stirred in the room.  Then he saw Frodo.

The Ring-bearer looked so small curled up on top of a heap of filthy rags damp from vomit and urine and blood.  He approached slowly, horribly dreading what he would find.  As he knelt near the broken body, he began to sob uncontrollably.  Revulsion and shock paralyzed him and he could not make himself touch the maimed remains of his master.  Somehow he knew, without having to see it, that Frodo's fair face had been savagely mutilated, that the orcs had inflicted a horrible number of wounds on his body, wounds designed to cause him the utmost pain so that the only option for him was to take the lightless paths into death.  He was dimly aware that he deserved a punishment for abandoning his master, for not doing what he had sworn to do, to stand between Frodo and aught that might try to harm him.  But even his guilt was submerged by the dark, cold knowledge that Frodo had died.

Rose—awakened by his thrashing and sobs—always rescued him from the nightmare by soothing words and gentle arms around his shaking body.  It always took him a while to realize that he was lying safe and comfortable on the soft feather-bed in his room, with warmth spreading from the fire across the room, and Rose's comforting presence beside him.  The dream was always so vivid, leaving him with a chilling sense of loss that only the Sun and a hard day in the garden could dispel, but he always remained subdued and somber a day or two afterward.

But there were nights when he had vague, gentle dreams that left him with a sense of peaceful restedness upon waking.  He remembered nothing of those dreams, save the smell of the Sea and Frodo's smiling face when he said, quite clearly, "Your time may come.  Do not be too sad, Sam."  

There were always tears in his eyes when he woke from those dreams, but not tears of sorrow.  And when he worked on his flower beds later, he would often pause and realize with a smile that he had been singing.

**A/N:**  When I began to write Sam's nightmare I realized that Sam saw little actual torture when he entered the Tower of Cirith Ungol, and since dreams oft consist of memories, I had very little to go on and my spirit flagged.  But when I was re-reading the book to get the feel of the interior of the tower, I came across these passages:

_"…the orc-cries came from the tower… Sam shuddered and tried to force himself to move.  There was plainly some devilry going on.  Perhaps in spite of all orders the cruelty of the orcs had mastered them, and they were tormenting Frodo, or even savagely hacking him to pieces…_

_…He would have welcomed a fight—with not too many enemies at a time—rather than this hideous brooding uncertainty.  He forced himself to think of Frodo, lying bound or in pain or dead somewhere in this dreadful place.  He went on. _(The Tower of Cirith Ungol, _The Return of The King_)

These passages gave me the boost I needed.  I think it is possible for Sam to have nightmares where he re-lived the terrors of his own imagination.  Also, I think he saw quite a lot that he did not describe in the Red Book, especially when he sorted through that gory pile of orcs to find some decent garment for Frodo.


	3. merry

**_In His Worst Nightmare_**

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****

**_merry_**

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In his worst nightmare he was drowning in fear and darkness.  He screwed his eyes shut and curled into a trembling ball of helplessness and waited for death as horses galloped around him, fleeing the Lord of the Nazgûl.  He could not suppress a sob as the Nazgûl steed croaked its chilling cry.  He rolled over on the trampled grass, keeping his eyes shut, trying to will himself to stand and run away, but his legs were shaking so badly he could hardly kneel.  He whimpered and put up both of his hands above his head when he felt the brush of foul wind that the beast's wings beat his way.  He cowered, hoping the Nazgûl would think he was dead, wishing he truly was dead.  The hideous shrieks sounded so close now and he thrashed madly in the dust, his fingers scrabbling the blood soaked earth as he tried to crawl away.  Another screech and another gust of wind as great, featherless wings flapped in the air, and his blood froze, his breath stilled.  

Somewhere in his heart a voice called to him, reminding him of his oath to King Theoden.  The stiff leather jerkin that he wore, the sword-belt around his waist and the pressure of his scabbard against his thigh reminded him painfully that he was there to fight beside the King, not to grovel like a worm in the mud.  But how could he fight when he was so consumed with terror?  What could he do against an enemy so terrible and powerful?  Hope and courage deserted him entirely and he wept where he lay on the ground.

He could hear the sickening swish as the Nazgûl's mace rent the air, followed by cries of terror and horrible cracking sounds as the weapon connected with any living bodies within its trajectory.  He wished with mingled fear and shame that he had stayed in Dunharrow rather than flaunted his stubbornness and useless allegiance to a king who in the end received only his blatant cowardice.  Aragorn had made a wise decision in leaving him.  Gandalf had been right to take Pippin.  Pippin would not have cringed in fear like this.  Did he not take his chance in the mist to throw his mallorn-leaf brooch for Aragorn to find?  Was he not the one with enough wit about him to cut the rope that bound his hands together, and looped them back "for show"?  Was he not the one who boldly came up with the idea of leading Grishnakh into thinking that they had the Ring?  Pippin was brave and shrewd.  Merry was nothing but a burden that nobody wanted.  

In his misery he did not immediately realize that everything about him had become silent.  There was only the flapping sound of shredded banners battered by the wind.  He raised his head and looked around him with blurred eyes.  The looming dark presence of the Nazgûl had disappeared and only the curtains of unnatural shadows were seen in the sunless sky.  He crawled slowly to the nearest body near him.  It was Theoden.

The gleaming hauberk of the King of the Mark had been torn and his body bore the marks of horrific desecration.  A sick feeling rose in Merry's throat and he turned away sobbing, appalled at what his betrayal had caused.  He got to his feet and staggered across the silent plain.  He found Éomer lying on his side, sightless eyes turned up at him, his body twisted and crumpled like a rag doll.  He thought he would faint when he saw Éowyn among the dead, still wearing Dernhelm's armor, a sword lying broken by her side, her fair hair now coated in blood.  But then he saw Gandalf, staff smashed and his luminous white garb sullied by yet more blood.  He found Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli lying motionless, their faces contorted in an unspeakable torment that not even death could temper.  He saw Treebeard, a heap of hacked off, scorched twigs and beard.  He saw Elrond and Galadriel and Celeborn and Glorfindel and Haldir and Rumil and Orophin, and though he knew that Elves died not, there was no mistaking the vacant look they all had in their disfigured faces.  And he saw Frodo and Sam, or what he was convinced were them; the mace of the Lord of Nazgûl was too mighty a weapon and hobbits disintegrated to pieces at its touch.   There were no tears left, no more sob in his throat, when he found Pippin.

He cradled the tousle-haired head in his arms, carefully positioning the battered small body on his lap, his mind blank and numbed.  He tried to form words, but he could not even find his voice.  In the end he could only whisper Pippin's name.  

 "Merry?" an answering whisper startled him and he blinked his tears away to see Pippin gazing up at him, his eyes narrowed in pain.  "Have you come to bury me?"

"No, Pip," he breathed out an answer.  "Of course not, you silly hobbit.  I've come to help you."

"Please, Merry," sighed Pippin, closing his eyes.  "Please just kill me.  It hurts so much…"

He stared at his younger cousin in stunned silence.  Pippin opened his eyes once more.  "Please, cousin, please," he whispered.  "If you love me, please end this"

The suffering in that plea pierced him, reminding him with blinding clarity what had become of his folly.  He gazed at the ruin that was Pippin's lithe body and knew that there was only one thing to do.

The cozy house in Crickhollow was small, and even though their rooms were in opposite wings, Pippin could fly to his room in no time.  It was Pippin who usually woke him when he started screaming.  It was Pippin who held him unquestioningly until the shaking subsided.  It was Pippin who silently released him from the tangle of sheets and tucked his blanket snug around him.  

"Don't tell anyone," he whispered.

"Never," promised Pippin solemnly.

"Stay here," he said.

"Always," Pippin nodded.

They held each other's hand in the awkward silence.  

"Thank you, Pip."  It was the only thing he could say.  There were others, lots of others, but he had no words for them.

"I told you to lean on me in Minas Tirith, Merry.  I never said you should stop doing so.  And stop thanking me.  You're starting to sound like Frodo."

With a smile he snuggled into his pillow, closing his eyes.  

At first he thought he was back in the nightmare, for he saw Pippin lying pale and swathed in bandages on a small makeshift bed.  But then he remembered that it was not a nightmare.  Because he knew it was Ithilien and everything was all right.  Because he knew Pippin's eyes would open any moment now.

_There_.

And light would kindle and spread in those eyes when they began to focus.

Exactly _that_ way.  Like the sun at dawn.  As though Merry was the only reason the Sun rose in the morning, the only reason that spring came, the only fountain of joy in Pippin's world.

"Hullo, Pip."  The tenderness in his voice was awkward and raw.

"Hullo, Merry.  Do you know?  I killed a troll."  

"Did you now?"

"So we're even now.  You killed the Witch-king, I killed a troll."

"That's good, Pip."  He was too happy, too relieved to say more.  

"Merry?"  This was accompanied by a mystified frown.

"Yes, Pip?"

"Aren't you going to say something in the way of …" he deepened his voice a bit to mimic Merry's, "'Really Pip, such a fuss about a simple troll?  Tell me, what is a troll compared to a Ringwraith?'  Or something equally spiteful?"

He blinked and quirked his eyebrows.  "Why would I say that?"

"To get even.  I said something like that to you, when we were walking to the Houses of Healing, remember?  You were too quiet for a spell, and I got worried, so I said 'That was a neat job, Meriadoc, killing that Ringwraith on wings.  But do you really have to have a lass to help you?'"  Pippin's smile had a touch of mischievous guilt in it, but it was artlessly charming all the same.  Something familiar, something soothing.  Pippin was alive.  It was almost too much, but he knew he must not cry in front of Pippin, or he would spend his entire lifetime salvaging his dignity.

"Ah, Pippin lad, if I did that, what would that make me?  A Took?  Do you really think I will stoop that low?" he said with well-feigned nonchalance, fighting to keep a steady rein on his voice.  "If I were anywhere as nasty as you were, I'd probably say 'A troll?  Well, not bad, Pippin.  Although cousin Bilbo might not share my charitable opinion; he did, after all, bag three trolls, a handful of oversized spiders, a few drunken elves and a worm.  Still I admit that a single troll is probably better than none, although I think you could do better than that had you not decided to hide underneath your first troll while the others were still locked in battle.'"  He shrugged, waving a dismissive hand.  "But… of course I am above making those kinds of remarks.  Unlike certain people I know, I might add."

Pippin was silent for a disconcertingly long time.  Then a wide grin split his narrow face in two.  "Oh, Merry," he sighed, his eyes glowing with disarming candor.  "It's good to see you again."__

Suddenly there were so many things he wanted, needed to say.  But finally he decided on a succinct, "Likewise, Pip."    

It was his favorite dream, one from which he always woke with a smile.

***


	4. pippin

**_In His Worst Nightmare_**

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****

**_pippin_**

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In his worst nightmare he was standing in the House of Steward, helplessly watching the flames wrapping themselves greedily over a standing figure on the stone table.  He would see a glimpse of Denethor's gleaming eyes plunging sharp and icy-cold into his heart.  _…oath-breaking with vengeance._  

Then suddenly the writhing figure on the table was no longer Denethor but Merry: his agonized shriek rose above the loud crackle of the burning wood, his face a rigid mask of pain behind the curtain of dark grey smoke.  "Pippin!  Help me!"

But he could not move.  He could not run and pull Merry down from the ring of fiery death.  _And this do I hear, Denethor son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it…_

"I'm sorry, Merry," he sobbed aloud.  "I'm sorry."

But Merry had gone and in his place there was Gandalf, standing erect, staring down at him with sadness and reproach, the fire creeping up his white robe in a jagged line of black and orange-red.  He had half expected the wizard to spit out the words "Fool of a Took!" but Gandalf said nothing, though his eyes eloquently spoke of his disappointment.

He fell to his knees, choking in the fume and tasting his own tears on his trembling lips.  "No, no…" he repeated in a reedy whisper.

_Swear to me now!_   __

He raised his face, feeling the sharp tingle of the heat penetrating into his skin.  The heat waves distorted his vision, but he could see Frodo behind the wall of fire.

"No," he groaned beseechingly, crawling closer to the stack of blazing wood.  "Not Frodo, please…  Not Frodo…"

Frodo gazed at him sadly.  _Please, Pippin_ the older hobbit mouthed silently.  _Please._  

The air was full of ash and cinder; he coughed and choked, his tears fell in an endless stream down his scorched face.  _I am scared_ his lips moved without a sound.

He saw the frightened young face of Bergil, dark eyes locked trustingly with his own.  _You will save me_ those eyes told him.  _I know._

_Here do I swear fealty and service … _He crawled to the black shiny ball that lay in a forgotten corner of the chamber.  

… _to do and to let be … _

He closed his eyes and took a deep, searing breath.

_… in living or dying … _

He placed both of his palms on the smooth surface of the sphere.

_So say I, Peregrin son of Paladin of the Shire of the…_

The Eye reared from the foggy depths of the black orb, filled his entire range of vision and drove spikes of fire into his mind, kindling his blood.  The pain made him howl, and he writhed on the ground, begging for the mercy he knew would never come forth.

_…halfling…_

A hideous, malicious lust coiled itself around him, strangling him.  _What do you want, halfling?_

_Let them go._

_What can you offer?_

_Myself._

The derisive laugh set his nerves ablaze.  _I have no need of you.  _And with that a river of flame surged from the seeing stone and swallowed him before he could utter another word.

_…oath-breaking by vengeance._

He woke with a start, in a knot of sweat-dampened sheets and tear-soaked pillow.  His throat felt tight and dry and he wondered if he had cried out in his dream.  He pulled on a robe against the chill air and went to the kitchen for a cup of cold water.  

After gratefully pouring the water down his aching throat, he sat at the table and only then realized that his hands were shaking.  

Was this Denethor's way of exacting revenge for his traitorous act in Minas Tirith?  But Denethor released him from the Steward's service before commanding the servants to bear Faramir to an untimely death by fire in the House of Steward.  

Still, he _did _persuade Beregond to violate his oath as a soldier and he _did_ cause blood to be spilled in the hallows of Rath Dinen, good enough reasons to earn the wrath of Denethor should he remain alive and learn about all his impertinence and provocation.  _…oath-breaking by vengeance.  _There used to be a time when he thought he was too clever to be frightened by apparitions, ghouls and all manner of ghostly beings.  But after the Ringwraith, after Barrowdowns…  He shivered involuntarily and pulled the robe tighter around him.

His eyes traveled to where his fingers clutched the edges of the robe.  It was one of Frodo's that he left in Crickhollow for when he stayed over on his infrequent visits to Buckland.  The fabric had the soft, downy feel of clothes that had seen a lot of wear; the hem and collar appeared slightly frayed, but it still retained its deep green hue, and the embroidered initials of Frodo's name still stood out in shiny black on the left breast.  Trust Frodo to choose for himself only the best in garment, simply because he loathed all the fuss of buying them and expected whatever clothes he had purchased to last a lifetime.  

He smiled in fond memory of his cousin as he walked back to his room.  He did not remove the robe but instead climbed to bed in it, pulling it closer about him, before piling covers and blankets over himself.  Thinking of Frodo helped cast aside all lingering terror of his nightmare and he was smiling when sleep claimed him.

He dreamed again of the sound of galloping ponies, running through woods already tinted with the red and yellow and brown of autumn, Merry riding in silence beside him, the hood of his elven cloak pulled over his head.  Merry had known Frodo longer, grown up with him in Brandy Hall in fact.  The loss would be harder for him.  

But he also could not remember when he was not in love with Frodo, when he was not happy beside the much older hobbit, when he did not worry over Frodo during the Quest, when his heart did not ache to see how reclusive Frodo had grown after their return.  With a shaky hand he twitched his hood up to hide his own tears and spurred his pony to trot faster.  The woods were silent.

They spoke little until they arrived in the Grey Havens in a dizzying rush of tears and laughter.  Frodo held Merry and stood on tiptoes to kiss his taller younger cousin.  Merry clung to Frodo for a long time while Frodo gently stroked him on the back, murmuring words only Merry could hear, until Merry released him with a sob.  

He bowed his head to let Frodo kiss him on the brow.  Farewells were altogether too painful and he wished he could say something flippant and cheerful.  But "I love you, cousin" was the only thing he could whisper when Frodo pulled him into an embrace.  

He closed his eyes and let his senses drink in this last image of Frodo.  The feel of Frodo's hair brushing against his cheek.  The soft flapping sound of Frodo's cloak in the wind.  The fistful of Frodo's velvet coat.  The warmth of Frodo's body in his arms.  Frodo's clean, sweet scents.  Frodo's hands around him, pressing him close.  Frodo's caressing voice as he whispered "My Pippin.  My unquenchable sunshine."  Frodo.

"Be brave for me, my Pippin lad," whispered Frodo—staring into his eyes—when they let go of each other.  

"I will, cousin," he promised in earnest, his voice quivering.  Frodo smiled and gave his arm a gentle squeeze before moving on to Sam.  

And so it was that he started a merry Gondorian dancing song when they rode back toward Buckland along the East Road.  Merry gave him a look that plainly showed he was contemplating whether to cuff his Took cousin on the head for being misguidedly lighthearted, or hold him close by way of gratitude, but in the end he only heaved a philosophical sigh and joined in when the song warbled into the second bar.      

When Merry came to wake Pippin in the morning, he found his younger cousin mumbling snatches of a Gondorian song in his sleep; he was smiling, but there were tears on his cheeks.

A/N: Some of the lines were taken from the chapter "The Steward of Gondor" in _The Return of the King_.

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